


Le Temps Guérit

by HannahLydia



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: A Booker and Elizabeth that don't know the truth, Accidental Incest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Columbia - Freeform, Dream-verse, F/M, Incest, Just A Dream, Marriage, Multi-verse, Post-Canon, Ruling AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 03:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15963788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: “A tasteful affair, all things considered,”Rosalind said primly, her expression unreadable.“Do you suppose we should have brought a gift?”Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, if only minimally. “What are you two doing here?”“Spectating,” Robert replied, raising his eyebrows as if in self-defence. “Just as you are, I would say,”AKA: Elizabeth dreams of another world she has seen behind one of her Doors. A world where she and Booker never tore down the siphon, never learned The Truth, and made an ill-informed decision.





	Le Temps Guérit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bookerbeth Week '17, for the 'Sleep' prompt.   
> Largely mentions a canon-divergent AU I have been meaning to turn into a full fanfic where Booker and Elizabeth are ignorant of their relation.

Though she had lived in Columbia for two decades, Elizabeth had only ever seen this place behind the Doors. 

She was sitting on the lawn of The Garden of New Eden, staring up at the stone wall emblazoned with the angel Columbia and face-to-face with a set of white double doors. A couple of moustachioed police officers were stationed before them, though if they had seen her they had not yet acknowledged her.   
Her gaze focused, picking out details. The golden handles of the city gates had been tied together by a large white ribbon, one that formed an impressive bow, and hanging baskets of trailing roses had been strung above the officer’s heads. Though this place was the only way into the city for pilgrims and visitors, it seemed by this cordon of law enforcement that the city had been shut out.   
Elizabeth got the gist; the garden was closed for some kind of private function. 

She couldn’t be sure which Door she was in. Was it a reality where the raffle and fair had been relocated or was this some grand ceremony of the Prophet’s doing?   
She raised her eyes, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The stone banner that had once hung above the doorway had been replaced, and for the better. ‘The Garden of New Eden’ had been chiselled into the scroll that once detailed the intentions of the Prophet’s precious seed and Elizabeth knew, implicitly, that it had been her doing. 

Gathering her feet beneath her, she turned to find a trail of petals that formed a make-shift walkway across the lawn. When she looked up however, everything in the distance was vague. Her environment was as hazy and indistinct as an abstract painting, and it was only when she took her first step that it seemed to stabilise. Details appeared and solidified, coming to her a moment at a time. She could hear a piano playing in the distance, slow and subtle. It drew her like a magnet, muffled only by the sound of flowing water. She glanced to her right, at the shaded seating area partitioned from the freshly-mown grass by pillars and a tiled floor. Decorative waterfalls streamed behind the row of benches there, all of them covered with presents of varying sizes - cream hat boxes wrapped in gold organza ribbon, parcels, gifts, and a stuffed Songbird wearing what appeared to be a bow tie. 

Elizabeth approached curiously, fingering the strings of the white and gold balloons that had been tied to the arm rests of the benches, examining a large canvas on an easel. Though she knew it had something written on it, she couldn’t read it. The cursive writing seemed to dart and smear the more she tried, becoming ink blots and puddles of colour, censored for her eyes only. 

She walked on. The gardens were devoid of tourists and holy men alike. Every so often she encountered a small detachment of forces, all stood in formation around the peripheral of the garden. They were Founder soldiers, unmistakably, although their uniforms were vastly different to what she remembered. The blue button-down coats and sword sigils were gone, replaced instead with ivory regalia that bore the Columbian flag on the breast pockets. Every one of them stood to attention, carbines ceremoniously cupped in their left hands and resting against their shoulders, pointing heavenwards.

The piano played on, and she followed it, entranced, moving as if within a picture, in a moment where time stood still.   
She passed a pond that was being used as a makeshift wishing well, silver eagles glittering beneath the surface of the clear water. The petal-trail snaked past it, and forked at a large circular flower bed that divided the path. She took the one on the right, stirring the natural confetti with her boots. It was only as she rounded the corner that she stopped short. 

A man and his tripod blocked her path. He was hunched over his camera, taking photographs of the private event she had walked right into. Elizabeth focused immediately on his subject matter… and her stomach flipped at the sight.  
There, standing with their backs to the Founding Fathers, was the one clue she’d needed to grasp her whereabouts. In that moment she knew exactly where she was and _when_ she was. She had seen it before, behind the Doors.

Booker was standing in suited finery in front of a rose-entwined trellis, his expression both serious and content. He wore a black suit, a shirt with a large starched collar, a white bow tie and a smile.  
Elizabeth’s doppelganger was poised elegantly beside him. Her white dress was all lace and layers, delicate and flowing, and her grown-out hair was styled into a Gibson roll, partly obscured beneath a sheer, embroidered veil.    
This girl had not been embittered by the chaos of Rapture, nor had her emotions been compromised by the overwhelming knowledge of her own power. The siphon remained intact, her back unscathed, and her abilities stoppered.   
Booker reached out a hand to cup the cheek of his bride, and she leant into it gladly. A gentle kiss followed soon after. 

Elizabeth stared, transfixed; an uninvited and invisible guest in the midst of the celebrations.   
She knew this was a possibility that the Luteces had tried to snuff out -a  _successful_ possibility, but one that hadn’t factored into their thinking.  
This Booker and Elizabeth would go on to rule Columbia until their dying days, or until the New Zealots of the Prophet brought them to their knees. They would have one or two children - the amount, it seemed, was not a constant - and they would rebuild what the Founders and the Vox had destroyed. They may not ever find out the truth, but Elizabeth knew that in one world - in many - they would. Even the unlikeliest of possibilities had branching variables; infinite versions upon infinite versions. 

Just then, a resigned voice beside her made her jump.

_“A tasteful affair, all things considered,”_  Rosalind said primly, her expression unreadable. Having manifested beside her, Robert hummed in agreement. His own hand was curled before his lips in consideration. “Do you suppose we should have brought a gift?” He continued, a bemused tone to his voice.  

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, if only minimally. “What are you two doing here?” 

“Spectating,” Robert replied, raising his eyebrows as if in self-defence, while his ‘sibling’ elegantly shrugged both shoulders, looking at her tersely. “Just as you are, I would say,” 

_Right.  
_ Elizabeth wasn’t swayed; the nature of their presence concerned her. She placed a hand on her hip, transferring her weight to the other foot. “May I ask _why_?”

Immune to the obvious challenge in her voice, the Luteces stared dead ahead, fixated on the ceremony.   
“You’re asking us?”   
“This is _your_ dream,” 

_Oh. My **dream** … _  
Of course.   
Pursing her lips together, Elizabeth dropped the interrogation. She was behind one of the Doors, yes, but her dreams had become like that lately, channelling her powers ever since she’d stopped using them day-by-day. 

Choosing to ignore the besuited twins beside her, she went back to staring at the newlyweds in the distance. She realised grimly that her chest felt tight.   
Part of her ached, because part of her felt what this Elizabeth felt, longing for the same choice but knowing it was one she could only make while innocent of the truth.   
The other part of her regarded them with pity. They were oblivious to the information that would have affected this decision. One day they might find themselves with children, or trying for them, and suddenly thwarted with the knowledge of their sin. 

Elizabeth inhaled deeply.   
Despite it all she liked this eventuality, more than she cared to admit. Of all the Doors, regardless of their ill-informed decisions, it piqued her interest because it was so different to the rest. She supposed it was _because_ of that that the Luteces treated it - or _had_ treated it - like the one anomaly that needed to be fixed.  
This world was the outlier; an unacceptable result of their experiment. So much damage could be done here, if they willed it so. She wondered if they still did, or if they had softened over time. She wondered if they had done away with their hypocrisy.  

“ _Promise_ _me_ you’ll leave them be,” She asked of them then, her voice low and desperate. Though she knew that she was sleeping she nevertheless hoped the request would permeate through the dream and reach their minds in something akin to telepathy.   
It was Robert who glanced at her. Out of the two of them, he was always the one to be affected by her plight. “… You know it’s too late for that,” He said gravely, lowering his hand, placing it behind his back. 

_It is? Or will it be?_

Distracted by the sight of the naive bride and groom beginning to walk the gardens arm-in-arm, Elizabeth grit her teeth. 

* * *

She came around slowly. 

As she drifted back to consciousness, she realised one of two things. Firstly, that she was lying on her side and curled up in the majority of the bed’s linen, and, secondly, that Booker was led facing her.   
Almost immediately, a warm feeling wrapped itself around her, seeping into her bones. Elizabeth almost forgot herself and where she was, but she soon anchored herself in the here and now. This was Paris, not Columbia. They were lovers here, not husband and wife. 

Booker was gazing at her through heavily-lidded eyes, his lips drawn into a tired frown. It was clear from the fatigue on his face that he hadn’t long awoken himself.   
“… Mornin',” He croaked. His hand drifted to her hip, fingertips trailing against her skin. 

“Morning,” Elizabeth echoed in return, her own hand travelling to the back of his head.  
She watched as he stifled a yawn and then stretched minimally, rolling his shoulders. Once he had chased away the remnants of sleep he levied her a look, attempting to gauge her night’s rest. “Another nightmare?” He asked of her, and Elizabeth was relieved to decline for once.   
“No, not this time,”   
“Good,”   
She scooted closer, burying her face between his neck and his shoulder, breathing him in. In crushing her body to his, she felt the hard mass of his morning wood pressing against her thigh. 

They lay like that for a while, both of them so comfortable that they were lulled into a relaxing silence. Every now and then, as if to prove he wasn’t asleep, Booker would gently grind his length against her leg. Elizabeth hummed encouragingly, until he exhaled in such a way that she could practically _hear_ his smile without even seeing it.   
God, she remembered a time when she’d never thought she’d see more than a wry smile on Booker’s face. Now she basked in the simple pleasure of that thought being proved wrong. She basked, too, in the knowledge that this was not the only world where they loved each other enough to stay together. There were more, many, countless, _infinite_.  

Elizabeth combed her fingers through his hair, her soft voice breaking through the early morning quiet. “.. Do you ever think about what would have happened if we hadn’t torn down the siphon?” She asked him, turning her head, feeling the tickle of his stubble against her cheek.  
She half-expected him to grunt, or bemoan the deep conversation so early in the morning. Instead she heard him breathe deeply, considering, turning his nose into her hair. “… Every damn day,” He confessed in a low voice, raking his fingers across her abdomen. 

_Oh._  
Elizabeth’s heart throbbed.  
She wondered what he predicted and what he felt but she knew that such sentimental talk was not his forte. Silence descended, and so Elizabeth comforted herself with the fact that he had answered her at all.  
The silence, however, was only temporary. 

Booker soon sniffed, awkwardly raising his hand to scratch his nose. He snorted as if he’d suddenly found something darkly funny. “Probably just as well though,” He admitted, hand rubbing up and down her thigh. “God knows I might o’ married you or something,”

Lips jerking reflexively, Elizabeth twitched.

_Y-Yeah. God knows._


End file.
